


Bury Them In The Woods

by Bekaylo



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Aftermath of Injury, Aftermath of Torture, Angst and Feels, Angst and Tragedy, Christmas Horror Story, Christmas Morning, Darkfic, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, HYDRA Husbands, M/M, Murder-Suicide, Suicide Pact
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-10
Updated: 2015-12-10
Packaged: 2018-05-06 01:48:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5398253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bekaylo/pseuds/Bekaylo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snow was falling, illuminated for a few inches in the window frame by the bedroom lamp. The darkness was complete outside the house. All Jack could see were those few inches, as he lay spooning Brock in their isolated house. That was as expected.</p><p>What was not wholly unexpected was the flare of additional light from above.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bury Them In The Woods

**Author's Note:**

> A horror story for the Festive/Holiday Season, this is intended as a 'dark fic'. It is the worst case scenario following the events of Care and Devotion.

Snow was falling, illuminated for a few inches in the window frame by the bedroom lamp. The darkness was complete outside the house. All Jack could see were those few inches, as he lay spooning Brock in their isolated house. That was as expected.

What was not wholly unexpected was the flare of additional light from above.

For several weeks there had been small things, flashes of light in the distance, one of the staff in the store slipping in a question or two. Tire tracks in the road, actually receiving mail once. Jack had not mentioned them to Brock.

The mail could have been a lifeline in some ways. All he had to do was respond a certain way and there would have been a solution to some of Brock's problems. Gene therapy, serums - all Brock would have to do would in return be to act as a Fist of Hydra, with that Crossbones suit. He had told Jack that had been the deal, originally, which was how he had come by it.

Jack wondered how displeased they might be that Brock had used it to go off in his own sweet way and rescue Jack, then disappear for months with him. They might feel the need to ensure he was more reliable in future by altering him, wiping him even. Jack had always dreaded something like that might happen. Brock had too.

Jack knew his limitations. He could defend himself despite his disabilities. His adult lifetime of firearms and combat training meant he was still more competent at those things even now that the average member of the public. But he knew he would never be of much use to anyone except as an instructor.

Use. Used. That was all they had ever been and where had it got them? A life in hiding, after serious injury, permanent physical damage for both and serious psychological trauma for Brock. This was the crossroads, where the life in hiding would change to a life on the run, or return to what they had sworn to avoid.

Six months ago, Brock had put on the gauntlets from his suit to practice and punched a hole in the tree in the yard. Jack had swallowed and made himself say some encouraging nonsense.

Brock had studied them for a moment, turning and flexing his fingers in them, then surprised Jack by pulling them off and dropping them. “Too big a price to pay,” he said and walked up to Jack. “You like tinkering with things like that. Take it apart, Jack.”

“What’s that? You want me to customize it? I ain’t Tony Stark,” Jack had a love/hate relationship with Brock’s Crossbones armor. It was the reason he was still alive, but he had too many nightmarish thoughts of Brock being turned into something like an Asset to not have a bad feeling the few times Brock had ever put it all on. Brock had done so a few times, to make use of the compensatory strength it gave him. To feel powerful again after a morning workout reminded him of how diminished the injuries from being crushed and burned under a helicarrier had left him.  
It was his scarred appearance that hurt Brock the most overall, but nonetheless his nightmares about falling and burning were distressing for Jack to wake up to. 

Jack put his arms around Brock’s waist and pulled him closer, forcing their hips together to give a subtle grind. Sex was a good distraction for both of them.

Brock surprised him a little once more. “Take it apart and see if there’s anything you could use for your bike,”

Jack was slowly and leisurely reconditioning a very old motorcycle. No rush, just something he liked,to do and could still do. It was not like he was ever really going to test it out, other than a small run somewhere with Brock riding pillion, one day.

Brock nuzzled Jack’s neck lightly, already starting to react to the subtle grinding of Jack’s jeans on his soft sweatpants. “Then we take the rest and bury it.”

Jack opened his mouth in surprise and was subjected to a downward pull from Brock's arms around his neck. Then he was momentarily silenced by an enthusiastic kiss with that wicked tongue of Brock’s. It promised a remembered world of pleasure. When Brock broke that off Jack stared at him in wonder; his eyes were shining with a zest he rarely showed for anything apart from sex and those rough, stiff hands grasped Jack’s face either side affectionately.

“Let’s bury it in the woods,” added Brock.

“Sure,” said Jack. He was relieved and surprised and it was clearly a catharsis of some kind for Brock. They took shovels, Brock wearing some of the suit and Jack carrying the helmet and some of the remaining parts. He had stripped it and squirrelled a few microelectronic things away for the bike. That would be a new challenge for him.

Brock removed the parts he was wearing and threw them in the hole they had dug. Jack joked about a striptease act, then felt a slight contrary tug of second thoughts about throwing the helmet in. That was the face that brought him back to life, that white, skull-like embellishment on the metal helmet.

“Throw it in, Jack,” said Brock. Jack complied, the real face that saved him was right next to him, that beautiful familiar pointy little face, with its scars and sculpted cheekbones. 

“If they ever come for us, I want you to kill me,” said Brock, abruptly, after they had covered the impromptu grave of the outward image of ‘Crossbones’. It was as if a chill fell on the summer evening for Jack, he shuddered. “Bury me here,”

“Shut up,” hissed Jack. “That ain’t funny,” He knew very well Brock was not joking, “Fuck,” he added and wiped his forearm over his face. Sweat from the dig.  
“Jack…” Brock slid an arm around Jack’s waist.

“If it comes to that, I won’t be around to - bury you.” Jack exhaled emotionally.

Brock smiled as if Jack had just said the cutest thing. “I know, but you would if you could? And you’d do us both if things got like that?”

“Whatever you want,” said Jack, solemnly and kissed Brock’s temple, resting his forehead there while Brock leaned into that a little. A pact was being made, really, in principle. They had decided there was nowhere else they would rather go, or ever rather be, than here.

From the bed, Jack knew the lights meant it was over. Whoever it was coming - and he could hear movement, imagine them black-ops-ing their way around the house, he and Brock were better off not finding out. Brock was sleeping in his arms, Brock would never know what happened.

Jack imagined them bursting in, guns, dragging them out of bed, to separation in confinement at best, to execution possibly either way. Summary execution here, Jack could visualize the startled Brock with his hands on his head, imagine how he, Jack, would feel and react when they kicked him, black bagged him, how he would tear himself from whatever restraint he was under to shield him with his body and how Brock would scream his last moments away when the firing started and Jack was the first to go.

That was not going to happen. Jack thought of the wine he had bought on impulse when he was looking at the whiskeys in the store earlier that day, annoying jingling music piped through the speakers for the season. It was silly, but it had Italian writing on it and it made Jack think of Brock’s Nona that Christmas eight years ago… Brock would have appreciated the gesture tomorrow.

Jack reached swiftly under his pillow, gripped Brock tighter, earning a beautiful contented sigh from him. He pressed his face into Brock’s neck, kissed it and sealed their deal.

The intruders heard a shot, a pause, another shot. When they burst into the bedroom, they found the literal dead end to their hunt. The clock display on a bedside locker said 03.00. There was general muttering, assessment and someone said “Okay, bury them in the woods,”

In the corner of the screen a smaller LED display said 12-25-2015. It was Christmas morning.

**Author's Note:**

> Take this as a late-for-Halloween chilling tale. I am so sorry. 
> 
> Maybe there will be something more cheerful before Xmas.


End file.
